Young Love's Folly
by GranthamGal
Summary: Caught up in a moment of anger, Robert and Cora leave Downton soon after their wedding. Their impetuousness, however, is not without consequence, and they soon learn that the world is quite unlike the insular world of Downton. Pre-canon AU.
1. Chapter 1

" _Your father was anxious to secure my cash! He didn't wait a month before he made me sign it over […]"_

 _(Downton Abbey Script Books: Series One, p. 22)._

 _O, thou didst then ne'er love so heartily!  
If thou remember'st not the slightest folly  
That ever love did make thee run into,  
Thou hast not loved_

( _As You Like It,_ 2.4)

* * *

A footman scurried down the hall, disappearing behind the green baize door as the shouting in the library started up again. It had been his first night of serving the postprandial drinks to the family; usually that was Charles's job as first footman, but Mr. Wilkins had bestowed the task upon him on this rainy February night, for Charles was busy helping with the packing of his Lordship's honeymoon cases. They'd wanted to pack up the coach before the rain and wind grew too prohibitive.

Though he himself had only been in the Crawley's employ for just over a month, having been taken on right before the wedding, they seemed to him a reasonable sort. The Earl was quiet, his wife a bit stiff, and the Viscount and his new wife, well, they weren't seen round the house all that much. Lord Downton was usually out with the Earl, and his wife, the American, Betsy said she lounged in her chambers all day long. And Betsy would know; she was a housemaid, after all.

And so he'd not anticipated any peculiarities on this particular evening. It had all started out perfectly fine. He'd prepared the drinks cart just as Charles had showed him: whiskeys decanting in the large crystal and four port snifters dusted and ready. They'd all shuffled into the library in conversation. They'd not even looked at him. But it had started before he'd even managed to uncork the port, the damned stuff.

As he stood behind the door now, cheek pressed against the hunter green cloth, he could hear the voices growing closer. Chest heaving, he listened, oh, how he listened, trying to piece together something, _anything_ from the shouts and thumping feet that had now reached the main hall.

It had started when his Lordship, the elder that is, said something about—something about papers? Even now it made no sense. And he'd been so busy with the bloody corkscrew that he'd not seen the way Lord Downton's eyes had narrowed, the way the women grew silent, or the way father and son began, quite suddenly, a screaming match of absurd proportions in front of the crackling fire.

The words had been shot like venom from snakes, the men all red-faced and overbearing, the young lord stamping about. His father had waggled his finger, like Mr. Wilkins sometimes did when he and the other lads forgot to polish the tea trays, or when someone tracked mud into the kitchen. But the Earl had only gotten louder, saying something over and over about how it was all finished, how it didn't make any difference what anyone else thought, because it was _done._

A solid _thwack_ of the library door hitting the wall reverberated throughout the cold marble of the main hall, and he tried to quiet his heavy breathing, listening still as the tapping of shoes (the hard leather of Lord Grantham and Lord Downton, followed soon after by the more delicate tapping of Lady Grantham and Lady Downton) produced a cacophony of noise just beyond where he stood.

" _Damn it to Hell, Robert, you've no right to question the decisions I make. You are not master here, and you best make damn sure to remember that—"_

" _Patrick, please—"_

" _Don't treat me like a bloody child, Papa. I told you! I told you she was not to sign those papers until we ran them up to London and had Andrews look them over."_

"— _Robert, really—your father explained and, I—I didn't mind signing the—"_

" _You are flying dangerously close to the sun, my boy, and I caution you to hold your tongue—"_

"— _You think that you can manipulate me, Papa, that you can just have Cora sign away her money and I'll sit by silently? It was my decision to make! Mine. She is my wife, and for you to countermand my—my authority—"_

"— _Robert you've more authority over the little grey pony in the stables than you do over the running of this estate. You're making a fool of yourself, and for your petulance and impertinence, I will most certainly—"_

" _Patrick, Robert, please—"_

" _What! You'll what, Papa? You need me. You need us. Everything around us, everything for miles, it will all be mine. You need me, and you need my heir. And if you cannot even treat me—and my wife—with respect, well—"_

" _Well, what, Robert? What empty threat shall you lob at me now?"_

" _I will go, Papa, don't think I won't."_

" _Go! And where shall you go?"_

"— _Well I—I can't think now. But we will go."_

" _Then by all means, Robert, go."_

" _Patrick, please! Stop this at once. Robert, you and your father must stop this—"_

" _Come, Cora. We shan't stay in this house a moment longer."_

Footsteps sounded through the hall again, the strength of the angry, unmelodious steps enough to shake the door. He heard the young lord shouting something, though to whom he could not say. And he heard the Earl, still just beyond the door, muttering something to his wife. Those words, too, were lost in the scuffle. But he could swear it sounded something like regret.


	2. Chapter 2

Robert was roused.

In fact, Cora was quite sure that she had never seen her husband this agitated. He sat across from her in the quiet train car, alternating between staring out the window and breaking into tangential discussions of his parents. She listened silently, having already realized that he did not actually want her advice or opinion of the matter; what he wanted was a mirror, a mirror to reflect what he already knew to be true: that he was, indubitably, in the right.

And so Cora remained silent, watching his hands, his usually gentle hands, flex and un-flex as though the motion might relieve some of his anger. His lips were drawn into a tight line and his foot tapped methodically against the floor, the _tap tap tap_ conspiring to reignite her own anxiety. For she had realized, too, soon after he'd practically pulled her out of the house, that now they were quite alone.

The shouting that began in the library and spilled into the main hall had only continued. Even after she and Robert went upstairs, ostensibly to pack, his father had followed after, shouting, _shouting,_ provoking. And Robert, oh, Robert had been too roused to resist. The yelling had echoed throughout the main hall, father and son locked in a heated battle over money that had been, only twelve hours before, hers.

Robert had been red-faced, screaming, practically, that his father was a liar, that he'd ruined the family. And Lord Grantham had been petulant, quite like his son, rolling-eyes and ignoring the pleas of his wife and herself.

The argument culminated in a Ming vase being hurled against the wall just outside Robert's dressing room, Robert shouting that since his wife's money would now be absorbed into the estate, he could do with _his_ property what he liked. Cora knew not whether the vase was a favorite, but Lord Grantham had quieted soon after that, only growling that Robert was behaving like a fool, and that he would never last in the real world. His parting words had been simply a reminder that their maid and valet were employed by the estate, and as such would remain at Downton.

So, yes, now they were quite alone, and the notion—for the first time in their marriage—rather frightened her.

It seemed like an age before his gaze settled on her. The train had long ago pulled away from Downton station; they were almost halfway to London, by Cora's estimation. But he was looking at her now, the faraway look that had been painted across his face finally cleared.

"Robert? Are you quite alright?"

He nodded simply, and leaned forward, elbows pressing into his knees. "I'm fine, Cora."

"I'm sorry that I've caused such a mess," she murmured.

"You didn't," he answered.

"But, I signed the papers—"

"—You signed them because Papa forced you to."

Cora only shook her head in slight agreement. She dared not say the words that had been on the tip of her tongue all evening. She dared not look into Robert's eyes and insist that she was not forced, that she had gladly given the money away, that she had barely looked at the papers before signing _Cora Crawley_ with great flourish.

She dared not tell him that she had been so cavalier with his money.

So instead, she exhaled, and looked imploringly at him. "Couldn't you try to reason with him? I know how you love Downton, Robert. And I think perhaps we could figure something out."

He snorted derisively.

"I've been groomed to love Downton, Cora. Don't you see? Papa has been manipulating me all my life. And he needs to understand that he cannot simply wrest my authority in these matters."

"But, Robert—"

"I won't go back, Cora. Not now. And I'll thank you to drop the matter."

His tone left no room for negotiation, and so Cora dropped her eyes down to her gloved hands resting in her lap as Robert set his jaw stubbornly and returned his attention back to the window.

"So where _are_ we going?" Cora asked, still looking downward.

"London, of course."

"But isn't it too late to book a place at a hotel? We nearly had to wait for the milk train, we left so late."

"We're not going to an hotel," he answered, chuckling lowly. "We're going to Rosamund's."

* * *

Rosamund Painswick née Crawley was, by rule, a chronically light sleeper. This fact had not been improved upon after her marriage, and Rosamund often found herself lying awake and tracing the patterns of the canopy above her bed into the early morning hours. This was not, however, one of those nights.

She and Marmaduke had spent much of the evening at the Darby's dinner party. By the time they had returned to the townhouse and crawled upstairs to bed, exhausted from hours of conversation, wine, and the cold February air, it had taken but a few moments for her to slip into a deep slumber.

So when Rosamund found herself being shaken awake by her husband—muttering something about a commotion downstairs—she was rather less than pleased.

"—What on Earth do you mean, a commotion, Marmaduke?" Rosamund sat up in bed, blinking wearily, and watched as her husband, dressing gown loose over his shoulders, closed the door to Adams, their new butler, and trudged back to bed.

"Exactly what I said, love."

She watched with considerable disbelief as he shrugged off the dressing gown and moved to slip back into bed.

"And you want _me_ to investigate?"

She listened as he snorted into his pillow, having already pulled the coverlet up to shield himself from the cold air.

"Trust me, my dear. This particular commotion will require your expert hand."

"It's rather too late for vagaries, Marmaduke," she muttered, making a quick pass through her tumbled hair as she fumbled out of the covers and searched blindly for her bed shoes and dressing gown.

He only hummed in agreement, murmuring for her to close the door behind her as she exited the room and followed after Adams who led her to the main hall.

The butler's face revealed nothing of importance, but Rosamund heard the _commotion_ in the main hall before even reaching the top of the staircase.

Robert's voice carried throughout the large room, and as Rosamund stalked downstairs, past Adams, his volume only increased. He was saying something about Papa, and as she reached the main level, she could see him gesticulating wildly, surrounded by luggage and his wife, who looked rather dazed.

"What is the meaning of this, Robert?" Rosamund pulled her dressing gown more snugly round her and straightened her back, attempting the regal stance she had often seen Mama use. When her mama adopted such a look, it inspired fear and deference in those around her. Rosamund, however, felt rather foolish, and Robert only smiled dumbly at her, pausing in his musings to kiss her cheek.

"Sister dear."

Rolling her eyes, Rosamund drew back from her brother and greeted Cora, who smiled shyly and had the good sense to look abashed at having drawn her sister-in-law from bed at such a late hour.

"We need to stay," Robert said without preamble.

Cora, standing behind him, began, "but if it would be too much trouble—"

"Robert, what's happened?"

He shifted awkwardly on his feet, stealing a glance at the butler who stood in the corner of the room. "Might we speak in private?"

Following his gaze, Rosamund nodded and gestured for them to follow her into the drawing room. Though it was nearly dark, save the remnants of a fire and one oil lamp on the table nearest to the hall, the three congregated in the small room anyway.

Rosamund, staring at the two who looked rather guilty in the low light, waited for an explanation.

It seemed, however, that Rosamund would be kept waiting. Robert hemmed and hawed for several moments and offered only a brief explanation of their sudden appearance on her doorstep. Explaining that their parents had grown unreasonable, Rosamund watched as a twitch of anger passed over her brother's face, and she watched, too, as Cora stood silently, fearful as she alternated glances between brother and sister.

He said finally that they would not return to Downton, an exclamation that would have, in any other circumstance, caused Rosamund to laugh out loud. But Robert's grim expression was telling enough and so Rosamund agreed that they would stay—for a time, at least.


	3. Chapter 3

Robert awoke the next morning, for the first time in weeks, with a sense of peace.

His sleep habits as of late had been fraught with interruptions, from the stress of his impending wedding to the mounting pressure from his father to _become a man_ , whatever that entailed. So when he awoke to sun streaming through the lace curtains of his sister's guest bedroom, the weight of his new wife beside him, and a clock on his bedside table that read precisely ten o'clock, he was quite certain that all the unpleasantness of the previous day was worth this.

Stretching his legs beneath the heavy bedclothes, Robert felt the lingering tension in his shoulders give way and he settled back down, peering up at the bed's canopy, which was stitched with intricate floral patterns. His stomach rumbled lowly, protesting just enough for him to consider leaving the warmth of the bed to ring for breakfast (for he certainly could not go down without having a valet to dress him), but a gentle sigh from Cora diverted his attention—and appetite—to something much closer.

He realized, allowing his fingers to graze the silky fabric of Cora's sleeve, that they were wonderfully, deliciously alone. There would be no breakfasting with Papa, no mind-numbing meetings with their mothers over table settings and guest lists. They were, perhaps for the first time in either of their lives, free.

And so with the enthusiasm of a child who'd just discovered a glorious new toy, or a biscuit jar just within reach, Robert shifted himself closer to his wife—applying his lips to her neck as he murmured her name.

Cora fidgeted, her eyes blinking open, and her face adopted a look of momentary confusion. This was quickly replaced with a smile, however, as she seemed to realize her surroundings.

Allowing his fingers to traverse the foreign territory of her nightdress—for in the handful of days that had passed since the wedding, Cora had enrobed herself in a different variety of silk and lace each night—Robert grinned again, and attempted to refocus on the task at hand.

Her skin was wonderfully soft and warm against his lips, and he'd found the ties on the back of her nightdress with considerable ease—silently praising himself for possessing such dexterity. But Cora fidgeted again beside him and Robert knew, even with his rather limited experience in matters such as these, that it was not a pleasant twitch.

Before he could enquire as to what precisely was wrong, Cora had launched herself forward into a sitting position, and turned to fix him with a troubled look.

"Have I taken a liberty?" Robert asked slowly, sitting up, too, to meet her gaze.

Cora shook her head, the curls loosened from sleep shaking round her shoulders. "No, of course not," she answered, reaching out to stroke his arm in assurance.

"Then what—"

"—don't you think we should talk?"

"Whatever about?" Robert asked, adopting an air of indifference.

It seemed a foolish question to ask, for they were moored in a foreign bed, in a foreign house. The weight of the previous night's calamity still hung just above their heads, heavy and looming like the canopy fixed above them. But Cora had a right to be concerned, he supposed. Pausing for a moment to stretch, his back not quite right after a night of sleep away from home, he exhaled and forced a smile to pass over his features.

"Darling."

His endearment worked just as he hoped, and Cora smiled, ever so slightly, her cheeks already pink-hued from his attentions. She nodded, listening quietly, and allowed him to take her hand into his own, relishing the feel of his thumb as it brushed methodically over her palm.

"Darling," he continued, "why ever should you worry? It would do us no good to revisit that—that _unpleasantness_ that my parents subjected us to."

"I suppose not," she allowed, still looking up at him with doleful eyes.

"And do you really think I would have left Downton without a plan for my—for us?"

Cora shook her head. "No, I—I didn't mean to imply."

Robert smiled, pressing a kiss to her cheek. He was gratified, at least, to have a wife who seemed as logical as she was beautiful. And it would have been unnecessary, he decided, as he let his lips linger just at the corner of her mouth, to tell her that his plan had been decided on the train to London. He was a husband now, the head of a household—in theory, at least—and it wouldn't do to trouble Cora's more delicate sensibilities.

"Of course you didn't." Robert smiled again, and unlaced their fingers, moving his hand to her cheek to brush back an errant lock of hair. Finding her nearness almost irresistible, he moved forward, then, and kissed her lips. Feeling her smile against his mouth only bolstered his confidence, and conspired to prove to him that he was indeed right in all this. So, breaking away from her for but a moment, he watched with some pleasure her previously tentative smile blossom into a wider grin.

"I've already got everything quite settled, my dear. I shall go see Andrews before tea to establish our accounts and then we can begin to plan our travels. But in the meantime," Robert continued—

"Yes?"

"Isn't it marvelous to be alone? So terribly far from our parents? Chaperones nowhere to be found?"

Cora's blush deepened, but she nodded in agreement, and allowed Robert to move just a bit closer.

"It's rather exciting, wouldn't you say, darling? Almost wild, even?"

Cora hummed in agreement, Robert's lips already having found the spot just below her ear where he'd left off earlier. She knew not whether the sparks of excitement pooled in her belly were remnants of the anxiety she'd felt since leaving Downton, or if they were down to the way Robert's fingers felt against her skin, beneath her nightdress. But she felt, too, then, that it _was_ rather marvelous to be alone.

The bedclothes and the mattress rustled and creaked immodestly as Robert moved his body above her, pressing her back against the bed. And it was strange, being together this way. The room was alight with the morning sun and there was nothing, save the clothes that were being hastily discarded, to shield them from each other. She felt his hardness as he settled between her legs, inexpertly attempting to pull down his trousers, and wondered for an awful moment if she shouldn't stop him. Would he think her vulgar? To want to be with him this way? He had never seen her so obviously exposed in the light of day. Nor had she seen him. This seemed to excite her husband, though, and Robert redoubled his efforts, murmuring her name, murmuring little nothings about their adventures and freedom against her lips.

And Cora felt then, in that moment, suddenly and wonderfully free.

* * *

Silence reigned in the Painswick household most afternoons, with Rosamund out paying calls and Marmaduke off working. Usually the house was left to the staff who would work fastidiously to tidy, dust, and prepare for the return of their employers.

And so when her brother returned in rather a fury, disrupting the peaceful quiet of the afternoon, he startled both the mistress of the house and the various servants who happened to be in his path.

It was indeed rather late in then afternoon when Robert came bursting through the drawing room door, his stride so forceful that the door landed a solid _thwack_ against the wall and her teacup rattled in protestation against its delicate saucer.

Standing with some alarm, Rosamund ignored the lace napkin that fell to the floor and moved forward, waving a hand to dismiss the footman who had been serving tea.

"—It is simply unfathomable!" Robert continued, though Rosamund supposed that the first half of his sentence had been turning over and over in his mind on the return trip to Eaton Square.

"And—and what's more, he implied it was my fault! _My_ fault for not consulting with him sooner."

"Robert, please—lower your voice," Rosamund, warned, eyes signaling to the just closed door.

"I will not!" he cried, petulantly. "Do you even understand? Can you comprehend the gravity of my situation?"

"I take it the meeting with Andrews did not go well," Rosamund replied, no hint of a question in her voice as she sat carefully back on the settee, still watching her brother pace back and forth before her.

He laughed derisively.

"No, no it did not go well."

"Well, Robert, darling, I think you may be working yourself up unnecessarily, and—"

"Unnecessarily! Do you know? Do you know what she's done?"

"Whoever are you talking about?" Rosamund asked, looking mystified.

"Cora! _Cora._ She signed those damned papers, the ones I expressly told her not to sign. The ones Papa had been shoving before her father for weeks on end. He was smart enough not to sign, at least. But Cora—Cora! How could she be so bloody foolish?"

His shout was nearly loud enough to set the teacups on edge once more. Rosamund, for her part, sat silent on the edge of her cushion, lips pursed into a deep frown.

"Robert, please," she hissed, when it became clear that he was about to pace a trench into the floorboards. "You must control yourself. The servants might hear you."

"I don't care about the bloody servants; it's a mess—it's all a mess. The money, my life, all of it. It's all ruined."

"How do you see that?" Rosamund stood and closed the distance between them, grasping his shoulder firmly. "What on earth did Andrews say?"

He exhaled and chuckled grimly. "The money's gone. All of it. I can't touch a single pound. Papa is in control of all of it now."

Eyes widening, Rosamund released her grasp and sat back down, folding her hands into her lap. "All of it?"

Robert nodded, taking the place beside her. He shook his head slowly, then settled it into his hands. "I can't go back there. Not now. Not like this. Like some bloody foolish child with his tail between his legs."

"Well," Rosamund said quietly, "you both shall just stay here, then."

Robert said nothing, though Rosamund knew his silence to be a tacit endorsement of the plan.

"But you really must talk to Cora and tell her—"

"No. No, I don't want to speak to her just now. I'll only end up raising my voice and upsetting her."

"But, Robert, it was her money."

"It became my money the moment we married," he replied, looking dumbly at her.

Rosamund sighed, falling silent. She knew, then, that her brother would not be swayed by logic, nor by the interference of his sister. She knew Robert better than anyone. Certainly better than the American currently occupying her best guestroom. Cora was sweet; that was an unarguable fact. But Rosamund knew not whether she would sink or swim under the machinations of the Crawley family. She feared, looking at the glint of anger in Robert's eyes, the way he tapped his foot aggressively against the rug, that this would not be a battle easily won by any of them. And so she sat beside her brother and pressed her hand into his own.

She remained silent, and refrained from urging him to seek out his wife once more.

It would have been, in any case, a superfluous task. For though neither Rosamund nor Robert were aware, Cora stood stock still outside the drawing room door in the cold marble of the entryway. Her hands shook as she attempted to quiet herself, having listened to quite enough of Robert's tirade to incite that same anxious burn in her stomach once more.

The words turned over and over in her head. _Foolish. Bloody foolish._

Perhaps she was. Perhaps Robert was right; perhaps everyone was right—oh!

"Cora? Are you quite alright?"

She had been too deep in thought to hear the click of the front door, and so she stood, now, before Marmaduke Painswick, a man who always looked endlessly serious and who made her feel unaccountably self conscious on her best days.

She could only shake her head, swiping at the tears she was unable to stave off, and brush past him, ignoring his inquiries and ignoring the sound, too, of Rosamund opening the drawing room door. Cora was, by that time, halfway up the stairs.

And she would be damned if she let any of them see her cry.


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: I never intended to leave this story for so long, but unfortunately life intervened. I'm hoping to be much more regular in my posting, and also hope that you all enjoy this chapter!_

* * *

 _Late March 1889_

Robert and Cora's first days at Rosamund and Marmaduke's townhouse passed quickly, in the haze of emotion and busyness that only their departure from Downton could have brought. And soon days turned to weeks and weeks to nearly a month. The snowdrops blooming in the garden would have been sign enough of the changing season, but both the displaced Viscount and Viscountess had felt, as a month's tenure at 37 Eaton Square approached, that time had finally begun to slow.

Robert's outburst in the sitting room was now a long-distant memory. He and Cora had not spoken for several days after the fact. But after some urging—rather a lot of urging, in fact—from his sister, Robert had come around. Within the week he had calmed himself; and he returned on one particular afternoon wearing an especially contrite expression and holding a rather large gift.

The tiny golden puppy had done much to win over Cora's good favor. The two of them had immediately warmed in the company of the frolicking animal and quickly agreed to name the little one Bes, Cora happy to indulge Robert's interest in ancient Egyptian mythology.

And, indeed, the air between them had been less chilly since then. Rosamund had been tempted to question her brother's judgment; a puppy seemed rather a backhanded way of winning the affections of one's wife—but they had both seemed so pleased that she'd not had the heart to confront him.

Unfortunately, Bes was quite a rascal. More than once the little dog had been caught chewing the legs of various expensive furniture. He had, too, been caught nibbling Marmaduke's shoes, one of Rosamund's favorite hats, and a few other odds and ends. Robert explained each time that it was simply the nature of puppies, but Rosamund began to wonder if it was simply the nature of puppies with immature owners.

On this particular morning, little Bes was seated beneath the feet of his master at the breakfast table. Marmaduke had grumbled more than once about allowing a dog into the dining room, but he was rarely present at breakfast, often leaving for work at half past seven, and so Rosamund had quietly countermanded that request in his absence.

Robert was in the midst of pouring milk into his tea when the morning post arrived. He watched with some interest as a pile of letters was dropped before his sister, but returned to his tea and toast when none of the letters were passed his way. Though brother and sister had seen their mother's familiar hand scrawled across the letter at the top of the stack, both remained silent on that score.

The passing weeks had done little to soften relations between her parents and brother. As far as Rosamund knew, they had not spoken—not even once. And as Rosamund peered curiously at her mother's letter, she was beginning to realize that the passing time was only making the situation worse. It seemed that each day Robert did not return to Downton, apologetic and ready to assume his responsibilities, their father took as a personal affront; he was shirking his duty to Downton, and Patrick refused to acknowledge his son as anything more than an overly indulged child. The letter that Rosamund held was only the third that had arrived from Downton since Robert and Cora's arrival, and the two preceding letters had also been from their mother. It was clear that each envelope had slipped out of Downton unnoticed by their father; although their mother was perhaps the more headstrong of the two, she would never deliberately defy their papa's instructions.

She scanned over the message hoping for a more positive account of the happenings at Downton, but found a message much the same as those that had come before. Papa was insistent that Robert had irreparably damaged their relationship, and she, too, was unwelcome at Downton until she turned out the _vagabonds._ Apparently news of the young couple's hasty departure had begun to make its way round the county, and that would only serve to fan the flames. Although Mama seemed concerned more than angry, there was little she disliked more than gossip. In fact, the only thing she liked less than gossip, was being the cause of gossip.

Rosamund knew, reading the final remarks, that soon their mother, too, would reach the limit of her patience.

She felt, then, a momentary sting of annoyance at her brother for landing them all in such hot water. Certainly she loved her brother. But Rosamund rather disliked being the go-between not only between he and Cora, but between Robert and their parents, too. It was an endlessly uncomfortable position, only made worse by the growing resentment she felt from Marmaduke. It seemed that her shielding of her brother had provoked ire from every angle. And he was, of course, ignorant at every turn.

An errant yap from the puppy below the table drew her attention, though, and Rosamund felt her brother's eyes fixed on the letter in her hands.

"Anything interesting?" He took another bite of his toast and nodded at the neatly folded pages with the Grantham seal fixed at the top.

"No, not particularly. Just some local news."

"Hm." Robert grunted and reached for his teacup, taking a long sip. "It looks like Mama's writing."

"I—"

"Really, Rosamund. You needn't shield me from everything. I am a grown man, after all."

Rosamund remained silent and only watched as Robert dropped lumps of sugar into his tea. He then reached clumsily for the milk, toppling some over the side of the little jug, and poured some of that, too, into his near-empty cup. She could sense his annoyance, but chose not to comment on that, or on the assertion of his maturity.

"Mama was just checking in," she answered flatly.

"Right."

"Really, Robert. Nothing to trouble yourself with—"

"I wasn't planning to," he began, but his sister stood, folding up the papers in her hand, and gestured for the footman by the door to clear her plate.

"I've a mountain of letters to get through this morning, so I'll leave you to your breakfast. This one's for Cora, though—" Rosamund held up a letter and set it down where Cora usually sat.

Her false smile rather irked him, but Robert nodded and watched Rosamund leave the room. If he was honest, it was quite nice having the breakfast room to himself. Rosamund could have taken breakfast in her room, but she had apparently become his governess in the weeks following his departure from Downton. She was often lurking, checking in, needling him with so many _questions_ —questions he could not possibly have any answers to.

So the blessed silence of the breakfast room was quite welcome, for Robert was already mulling over his day's plans. Most mornings were spent walking through the park with Cora and Bes. Buying the little dog had been fairly impetuous, but one of the chaps at the Club had been talking about their dog's new litter and he'd not been able to resist. And he supposed he had the puppy to thank, anyway, for pulling Cora out of a particularly sour mood.

He'd never meant for her to hear those things. But she'd been so angry—god, had she been angry. Shouting and crying and insisting they return to Downton at once. He'd refused, of course. To go back would have been to undermine his authority, to only prove his father right! And so he and Cora had fought, on and off, for days. Until she'd grown silent.

But she'd been so terribly pleased with the puppy.

Robert reached below the table to feed the dog a scrap of toast, and patted his head appreciatively.

Gobbling up the treat, the dog barked excitedly and wagged its tail, though Robert realized that the dog was less excited about the crust he'd offered it than the appearance of Cora in the doorway.

"He likes you best, I think," Robert grinned, watching the puppy bound over to Cora.

She smiled, kneeling down to greet the little one, and shook her head. "I doubt it. Perhaps he's just bored of your company this morning."

Robert chuckled, and stood to greet his wife. "I wouldn't blame him."

"Well," she answered, " _I_ am not bored of you. Not yet, at least."

"Thank heavens for that," Robert murmured, pressing a kiss to her cheek. He allowed his lips to linger there a moment longer than propriety would allow, the feel of Cora in his arms already bringing to mind memories of the previous night, her bare skin beneath his fingertips, the way she'd cried out his name.

He knew by the way she blushed that she, too, was thinking of it.

"Robert," she scolded, "not now."

Brushing past him, though wearing an indulgent smile, she sat in the seat nearest to his, and reached for the teapot.

"What do you have planned for today?"

"Oh, nothing much. I might have a few chaps from the club over for cards tonight."

"I suppose I should make myself scarce, then," Cora replied.

"You know how those things are. You'd only be bored."

"Of course, but I should like to spend time with you—"

"And anyway…" Robert stood, scooping Bes up off the floor, "someone will need to watch this little lad. Don't tell Rosamund but I caught him with Marmaduke's walking stick this morning."

Robert plopped the puppy into Cora's lap and kissed her forehead, the gesture somehow feeling condescending to her. She smiled, though, and held the squirming dog in her arms.

"We're not walking this morning, then?"

"I've some business at the Club today," Robert called, already halfway out the door. "Don't wait for me for luncheon."

"Alright," Cora replied, more to the puppy than Robert—for he was already out of the room and walking through the hall.

"We'll just do without your papa then," she murmured, kissing the little dog on the nose.

* * *

It was mid-morning by the time Cora had a spare moment to sit down and sort through the post. She'd had a few things to go over with her maid—well, Rosamund's maid—and then she'd taken little Bes for a short walk through the square. It seemed unfair that he should miss out on the fresh air only because of Robert's absence.

And, anyway, Cora enjoyed being out of the house. She'd come to realize that too much time spent indoors only led her mind to wander. And often, it wandered to Downton.

She realized, then, sitting in the large window that overlooked the street, that it had been nearly a month since they'd left. Robert had made no mention of his parents; he'd made no mention, either, of any plans to return to the ancestral home he so clearly loved.

In darker, quieter moments, Cora scolded herself for not speaking out. It seemed foolish, after all, to be barred from a property that her money had restored. She thought of the papers she'd signed. She thought of them often, the words that had seemed so complicated, so unnecessary. Wasn't it enough that she loved Robert, that she wanted to help save his home? She thought of her name, scrawled across the bottom of the page. She'd been nervous, signing everything without Robert's approval, and had smudged her thumb against the wet ink.

But it had seemed the right thing to do. She remembered feeling quite sure of that, even as she'd blotted the ink off her finger with one of Patrick's handkerchiefs. Robert, she thought, would understand. It was for their children, for their sons. It was them she had thought of when she'd signed away her father's money.

Nothing was turning out the way she had been so certain it would.

And Cora knew now, for all the certainty that had possessed her then, she'd been foolish.

The letter crumpled in her hand seemed to confirm that fact.

She could practically feel her mother's rage lifting up from the pages. Full of exclamation and condemnation and words Cora had never heard pass her mother's lips, the letter was rather harsher than she had expected; but the letter itself was not unexpected.

Although the words had made her hands tremble at first, Cora felt oddly detached, reading them over again now.

 _I'd never have thought you to be so god-dammed foolish, Cora—_

— _Don't you have any influence over that boy?_

 _You're ruining the family name we paid good money for._

It was only the last one that had truly stung. For Cora wondered, reading over the words again and again, if her own mother thought such things of her, what on earth did Robert think? And she felt foolish, more foolish, then, for even caring about Robert's opinion.

Oh, she loved him. Dreadfully so. Wonderfully so. She could lie awake for hours at night just counting out the rhythmic beats of his heart beneath her palm. She knew how he liked his tea, and could tell when he was frustrated by the way his jaw would set out. The way he said her name made her grin, and the way he touched her made her dizzy. Yes, she loved him—oh, yes, she loved him, would give him anything he asked—and had, in fact, given him everything she possibly could.

But it was becoming quite obvious that he would not, or perhaps could not, say the same.

* * *

It was perhaps less a matter of unwillingness than it was a matter of inability.

For as Robert sat at the card table that evening, it was thoughts of Cora that dominated his mind. He'd been out for much of the day, busy at the Club. He rather hated wasting his days at Rosamund's, and so he'd taken to meeting some friends for cards or drinks and such. It was more soothing to his mind than to wander round Rosamund's townhouse, thinking over all the wretched things that had passed in the last several weeks.

Andrews had been unable to undo any of the paperwork. And so, much to his annoyance, Robert had been forced to rely upon his sister for lodging, compassion, and most importantly of all—money.

He suspected that Marmaduke knew nothing about that, and Robert was quite alright with that remaining the case. And, anyway, once everything was set to rights with Downton again, he'd surely pay her back. Harry Laughton had been helping him acquire some new legal representation to look into the particulars of the entail. Quietly, of course, for Robert hated being the subject of gossip.

For now, as far as anyone knew, he and Cora were in town taking care of some business for his parents, and paying some calls to friends she'd made over the season. It was plausible enough, he supposed.

But none of that mattered. Not tonight, at least.

He'd managed to wrangle up rather a larger group than he'd expected, and they were already into their third round of pharo, and Robert was on—he paused, looking down at his empty glass—his fourth whiskey. So, yes, thoughts of Cora were nearly all he could focus on. He'd half a mind to leave his friends in favor of spending the rest of his evening in Cora's bed, but his head felt quite thick, and he couldn't seem to gather up the momentum to actually stand.

Raucous laughter filled the room, and the cigar smoke that surrounded the table made his eyes burn in the best way. He felt alive and happy—calmer than he had in days, in weeks, really, and he held his glass up in delight when Shrimpy tottered over on unsteady legs with the half-empty decanter.

" _C'mon, Robert, one more, since you're so damned far ahead of all of us."_

The men laughed, a few slapping him affably on the back, and Shrimpy refilled the glass, as Robert grinned, moving to stand from the large leather chair he'd been seated in for most of the night.

"One more, one more!" He called out, the glass swinging as he pushed back against the chair, finally in an upright position. "But then it's off to bed for me!"

That earned him another peal of laugher from his friends, and a few winks, too. Cora had stopped in to say goodnight after she and Rosamund were finished with their postprandial drinks, and Robert had seen the way some of his friends leered at her. He'd not liked it then. But now, his belly warm and full of whiskey, and another winning hand of cards before him, he felt a sort of pride—though it was nearly eclipsed by the acute discomfort of their continued laughter.

" _We'll bet you're off to bed,"_ Sunny laughed, raising his eyebrows.

Even Dickie Grey who never laughed at anything, snorted, red-faced at the insinuation.

"Oh, do shut up—" Robert cried out petulantly. He took another swig of his drink, the liquid burning his throat more than it had been previously, but he sat back down and reached for his cigar.

He was about to tell them all to stop, for even in the haze of liquor that had drowned out much of the chatter of his friends, he could tell they were still talking—still talking about Cora.

But before he could muster the good sense to say anything at all, for he'd grown distracted by the whiskey that had splashed over his glass, the sound of a door opening behind him drew him—and the group—out of their reverie.

" _Robert!"_

He turned at the sound of his name only to be met by Marmaduke's hand reaching for his shoulder to pull him up out of his seat once more.

" _What the bloody hell are you doing?"_

"We—ah, we were uh—finishing up a card game."

Marmaduke covered his mouth with a bent arm to combat the think smoke that filled the room and looked around, coughing, his eyes narrowing as he took in more of the scene. Robert took the same opportunity to look around, and was surprised to find the room, which happened to be Marmaduke's study, rather a mess.

Papers that had been neatly stacked atop the desk were in piles, having been shifted around to make room for the drinks cart and accoutrements. The hat rack was full, though Marmaduke's favorite hat had been long discarded on the floor to make room for the guest's hats and scarves. There was cigar ash all across the dark wood table that had been pushed to the middle of the room, and Robert noticed, as he followed Marmaduke's gaze, that Bes was sitting in the corner of the room, sound asleep beside one very chewed up walking stick.

"—I'm sure everything will look good as new once the servants have a crack at it," Robert mused, breaking the absolute silence of the room.

"You better damn well hope so," Marmaduke snarled, stepping closer to Robert.

His brother in law had the good sense, though, to pause at the smell of alcohol radiating off Robert's breath. He knew, even as he looked at Robert's idiotic expression and the equally dumb faces of the buffoons he'd invited over, that he'd get nowhere with any of them. So, pushing past Robert, he turned round only once more—daring not to raise his voice as he spoke—and called out for a footman.

"The game's over. Get them all out of here."

* * *

Rosamund was still sat up in bed reading when she heard the distinct thunder of footsteps approaching the bedroom door. She'd gone up for the evening quite early, but had spent several hours reading. Though her sleeplessness could often be blamed on any number of things, on this particular evening it was certainly down to the near-constant hum of voices coming from the floor below.

Several times she had been tempted to go down and interrupt her brother's soiree. But several times she had reminded herself that Robert _had_ asked for her permission. Yes, he'd said it would be a small gathering. And, yes, Cora's face when he'd practically waved her off to bed so that he could entertain his friends had been rather upsetting. But, the idea of storming downstairs to break up his little party was entirely too close for comfort; for it reminded her of something Mama would do.

So she had remained upstairs, flipping through her book and awaiting sleep.

The door swung open, thwacking against the printed paper on the wall, before she could so much as flag the corner of her page. Turning in some alarm, Rosamund found her husband in the doorway, looking angrier than she had ever seen him. He was red-faced, fists balled at his sides in obvious consternation, and entered the room without preamble, slamming the door closed almost as quickly as he'd opened it.

"Damn it, Rosamund, I told you this would happen. I told you!"

Rosamund drew up the coverlet around herself, watching as her husband paced back and forth at the foot of the bed. "I don't know what you're talking about," she muttered.

Her sarcasm, however, was poorly received. Marmaduke began shouting again, yelling about a man's home being a respite from work, a respite from the chaos of the city. But now—now! Everything was a disaster.

"I wouldn't say a disaster, darling—"

"Don't try to placate me, Rosamund. I'm not a foolish child like your brother; it won't work."

"I wasn't trying—"

"You were! Goddamn, Rosamund. You were. You are!"

She stood, extracting herself from the blanket, and crossed the room in a few quick steps.

Marmaduke continued to pace.

Perhaps she was placating him as she moved to take his hands. So it was little surprise when he shrugged off her touch. Marmaduke was not easily steered; it was one of the things Rosamund liked most about her husband. It was also one of his most irksome qualities.

When Mama had first met him, she'd declared him _entirely too modern for anyone's good._ Although Marmaduke's mother had distant relations that were almost respectable—a particular baronet's name was often bandied about at parties as a mark of nobility—his father had come from little, and had built a manufacturing empire from nearly nothing at all. Marmaduke took pride in this fact, had boasted of his father's business success when prodded, and this had left a poor taste in Mama's mouth.

Papa had, of course, not minded. Although Rosamund's sentimental side would have liked to ascribe his reluctance to refuse the match to his desire to see his daughter happy, Rosamund knew the reality of her marriage had little to do with sentimentality—not in her father's eyes, at least.

There had been no money for a dowry, not when Rosamund had stood before the King and Queen to be presented. She'd danced at her ball knowing full well that a traditionally advantageous match was unlikely. For who would take the penniless daughter of an earl when they could have the wealthy version just as easily?

Marmaduke hadn't cared. He'd been brought to the ball by one of those respectable relatives. His suit had been well-cut, and his hair perfectly smooth. She remembered seeing him toy with his cufflinks, though, and noticed the shine of new gold at his wrists when they'd danced. The lack of tarnish had said what he'd remained silent on. _New money._

But he'd been so terribly kind, so interested in what she was interested in. He'd accompanied her on long walks through Kew Gardens, up and down Bond Street as she popped into shop after shop. He'd held her parcels, and had only smiled even more kindly when her friends tittered about his background, about the impossibility of a match between them.

Of course they'd not known that she'd barely a shilling to her own name. With Robert still at Cambridge, her parents foolishly pushing suitor after suitor after her (all of them horribly old, rich as Croesus, and unspeakably dull), she'd allowed it to continue.

And then when he'd lowered himself onto both his knees out on the Downton parkland, even after a horrendous luncheon with her parents, she'd said, enthusiastically, desperately, _yes._

Standing before him now, she nearly chuckled at the memory; he'd swooped her into his arms, laughing with the unguarded joy of a child. And she'd felt happy, happy in the match she'd made.

They were a good match.

Even as he stood before her, pacing, still ranting about her brother and something about his _bloody walking stick_ , she knew it to be true. So she reached out once more, and grasped at his arm.

"Darling. Darling Marmaduke."

He paused, pulled from his fulminations by the press of her fingertips into his palm, and looked at her with considerable suspicion.

"You won't talk me out of it, Rosamund. They must go—they must return to Downton."

"I hadn't planned to talk you out of anything," she said simply. Her fingers pressed a bit tighter.

He shook his head. "No—no."

"No?"

"Rosamund." His tone was warning, though he'd already calmed considerably.

"I know you're upset."

"I'm not _upset,_ " he parroted back. "Don't you see? Rosamund, if you continue to treat Robert like a child, he'll continue to behave as one. He's never been made to do for himself. He wanders around _my_ home as though he is master here! However, I distinctly remember him relinquishing that title when he left Downton."

"Yes, I know. But—"

Marmaduke shook his head again, shrugging off her touch. "You don't know—you don't know! And I've worked too hard to be treated this way in my own home. In our home, Rosamund. Does that mean nothing to you?"

His head continued to shake, emphatically, as he strode across the room and pulled open his dressing room door, not waiting for a reply. He left the door open, however, and continued to call from the other room.

Rosamund perched herself at the edge of the bed and listened as he spoke, the words broken up by the sounds of his overcoat dropping to the ground, the gentle thump of shoes falling against the rug.

"…and, anyway," he continued after a pause, returning to their bedroom in his nightclothes, "it is not our responsibility to care for your brother and sister-in-law for all eternity. They are adults. They must return home, or learn to provide for themselves."

"He's my brother," Rosamund answered, looking up with doleful eyes as Marmaduke paused before her. "And not everyone is as self-sufficient as you."

"Yes, well."

She could hear the softness in his voice, and when she reached out to take his hand, he made no movement to extricate himself. He only leaned his head forward, and pressed his lips tenderly to her forehead.

"My dear, I know you would like to help. But you have. And now we must return to our own lives."

Rosamund remained silent, but followed her husband's movements as he shrugged off his robe and slipped into bed. She settled in beside him, and lay her head against his shoulder.

"Perhaps they need a bit more time."

"Rosamund—"

"Just a bit more time, I mean. You know how Mama and Papa can be. Once everyone has had enough time, perhaps things will settle and then we can revisit the idea of them returning—"

"Are we to have our children in the nursery and your brother and Cora in the room next door? Rosamund, be reasonable." She heard him exhale loudly as he turned over, but again she remained silent.

Silence fell thickly over them—an uncomfortable silence that was not often present in their bedroom.

And it seemed the quiet would remain, though neither Rosamund nor Marmaduke were anywhere near ready for sleep. However, after but a handful of moments, a rhythmic _thump thump thump_ noise sounded out above the silence. Both husband and wife sat up, listening intently.

At first Rosamund feared little Bes had wandered upstairs, for he had spent several nights in the upstairs hall whining for his master's attention. However, this was entirely too loud—and not at all the sound of a whining puppy. No, this was too regular.

The _thump thump thump_ rattled against their wall, shaking the decorative vase on Rosamund's vanity. Rosamund felt her husband move beside her, ready to investigate, when voices became audible above the sound. And indeed, very clearly, the sound of Robert and Cora's voices could be heard above the steady noise, the unmistakable sound of whatever amorous interlude was occurring next door only adding to the ire of the Master and Mistress of 37 Eaton Square.

Marmaduke opened his mouth, but before he could begin another tirade, Rosamund only nodded.

"I'll tell him in the morning."


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: A small transitory chapter. Do let me know what you think! :)_

* * *

Robert stood on the steps of the townhouse, watching a man load Cora's trunks onto the back of a hansom cab. His own cases had taken considerably less time to stack, and as the light drizzle of rain pelted against his hat, errant drops splattering against his face, Robert wondered just what precisely his wife could possibly have in all those bags?

Rosamund stood, too, beside him—though she was unusually silent. There had been little to say once she'd all but thrown them out that morning. He supposed that the party had been a bit too raucous. And he regretted raising his voice again this morning when she'd told him that Marmaduke was insistent: they must go. But she'd not said much else then, either; no, she'd only looked at him sadly, and pressed a handful of money into his palm.

He'd felt foolish then, and he felt foolish now, the wad of pounds lodged uncomfortably in his trouser pocket. He'd never wanted anyone's pity. But lately it seemed that was all anyone could give him. As Rosamund chanced a look at him now, that fact seemed to be confirmed. She wore the same gloomy look she'd adopted earlier that morning, though she masked it now with a tight-lipped smile like Mama often did. He wanted desperately for her to stop looking at him. So he turned again, and watched the man loading Cora's cases. It still seemed to him an inordinate amount of things—things they certainly did not need—but it was a distraction, at least.

After another moment and the jostle of the final suitcase as it was pushed onto the top of the pile, the man tipped his hat at Robert to indicate the job was finished. Rain continued to fall around them and again, Robert wished desperately to be alone, for he could feel his sister beside him, the weight of her concern and disappointment absolutely stifling.

"Rosamund, I—"

He'd turned, meaning to wait for Cora in the carriage. But when he'd finally turned, finally looked at his sister, he could see her eyes were wet, and felt supreme guilt for being the cause of her pain.

"Is there anything else you'll need?" She reached out and brushed a hand against his shoulder, pulling away a loose thread from the seam of his overcoat. "I could come over for tea tomorrow; you know the Savoy isn't far at all, really."

Robert only shook his head, suddenly feeling quite small.

"—And perhaps after some time has passed, I could speak to Marmaduke. Or, or I could train up to Downton and speak to Mama—"

"Rosamund, no—"

"I'm sorry," she interrupted. "I'm so very sorry about all of this."

Robert smiled, finally, and leaned in close to kiss his sister's cheek. "Don't be sorry. None of this is your fault. It's all me; I've buggered everything up."

"Mama and Papa can be difficult," she allowed.

"Yes. Though I'm learning that I'm not much better," Robert mused, recalling with some discomfort the look on Cora's face when he'd recounted to her his conversation with Rosamund. She had been less than pleased to learn that they would be moving again, and not moving anywhere near Downton. She had remained quiet, aside from some half-hearted attempts to bring up returning home, but Robert knew; he was many things: immature at times, petulant, even, but not entirely dull. He knew the look that had passed over her face was disappointment, disappointment in him.

"Robert, if ever you need anything, you or Cora—"

"No, no. You've done enough. Really, Rosamund, I owe you a great deal."

He grabbed her hand, then, and squeezed it, a gesture of familial affection that was not often so plainly made in the Crawley family. He would have perhaps said more, said something worthy of the thanks that his sister deserved. But they were interrupted by the quiet tapping of Cora's shoes in the hallway, and her sudden appearance on the doorstep.

"Are we quite ready?" she asked.

Brother and sister nodded, and Robert reached out to kiss his sister goodbye once more. "Thank you, really. And—for this too," he gestured down toward the half-opened door, to the puppy peeking round the corner, looking up at its master.

"Oh, it's no trouble," Rosamund murmured, reaching down to scoop up the little dog. "When you're…when you're settled, he'll be yours once again."

Cora hummed in agreement and looped her arm around Robert's. "We should be off. We don't want to take up any more of your morning."

Smiling kindly at Cora, Rosamund only waved off the suggestion. "It's no trouble." And it wasn't, not really. Looking at them, Rosamund felt a strange urge to shepherd them back into the house, to lock the doors and protect them from the city that seemed, in that moment, entirely too immense. She looked at her brother, the brother who had been her only playmate, her greatest protector, and she was afraid—not for the first time in recent weeks—that he would not rise to this occasion. And as she looked at Cora, her arm clumsily looped around Robert's in a poor performance of intimacy, well, she was doubly concerned that the two of them wouldn't last long at all without her watching.

But Robert seemed ready to go, and after they both patted Bes's head once more, Robert guided his wife to the hansom cab, waving only once more before letting himself in, too, and shutting the door.

Rosamund watched as they pulled away from the sidewalk, and she watched as the horses began to pull the small carriage down the street. She watched until they were out of sight, and even a moment longer, still, for she felt rooted in place, a gnawing fear already building in her stomach.

* * *

By the time that the hotel's valet and housekeeper vacated their suite, Robert was rather tapped out.

It had only occurred to him that they were once again without valet and maid when they arrived at the front of the hotel. They had never seen fit to hire anyone in London, as Rosamund's staff was more than adequate. But of course they could not take them, nor could they afford to.

And so when they arrived at the Savoy, every employee had seemed perfectly unaware that the Viscount Downtown was expected. And without valet, there was only the cab driver to begin lugging Cora's things into the hotel. The rain had picked up on their ride over, too, and so—prompted by the look of displeasure on Cora's face as her trunks were splashed with water—he'd begun to help the man drag the horribly heavy cases into the lobby.

 _Finally_ , someone had taken notice and assisted, but now, sitting on a settee in their small parlor, Robert was quite sure that he felt a twinge in his lower back. Cora had apparently been spared any discomfort, for she had been napping for the better part of the afternoon. It had taken what seemed like ages for the hotel staff to unload all their cases, hang things, press things, and finally leave them in peace.

Robert sat up, entirely awake after a very brief nap, and felt his stomach begin to protest for dinner. He attempted to stretch against the back of the divan, but his muscles only joined in protest, however, and he yelped in pain. The lamps in the sitting room were dim, and Robert looked around the foreign surroundings with little interest. He needed to talk to Cora about them moving to something more permanent, something—their own, he supposed.

If he could only wrap his mind round how precisely to do that, well, then they could start to plan. Though he had made little progress with untangling _any_ of Cora's money from the entail, he knew for certain that they could not stay at a hotel forever. Staying with Rosamund was one thing; living like vagabonds in a London hotel was something else entirely.

But for now at least, taking care of dinner would be accomplishment enough.

Cora's bedroom was nearly pitch black (she had instructed the maid to draw the curtains, complaining of a headache), and Robert moved clumsily around the space attempting to locate a lamp. He found one, finally, just about the moment his foot connected with the edge of the four poster bed.

Muttering a profanity under his breath, Robert turned the small oil lamp on and called for his wife, perhaps a bit louder than necessary. And when she did not respond, only shifting slightly in her sleep, he called again, absolutely louder than necessary, and reached across the bed to jostle her arm.

"Robert, what on earth?" she finally muttered, running a hand through her half-undone hair as she sat up, slowly, blinking in confusion at the brightness of the lamp that was practically beside her.

"I'm hungry," Robert answered, setting the lamp onto the bedside table. "I didn't want you to sleep through dinner," he amended.

"I—" Cora paused, peering past her husband and into the looking glass on the vanity. "I'm not hungry. And I don't want to go downstairs."

"But, Cora."

He could hear himself whine, and nearly wanted to scold himself for being so pettish. But his stomach grumbled again, and so he let the petulant words hang in the air between them.

"I look frightful," Cora said finally. "And I don't have a maid to call, so I would rather not go down and make myself an object of fascination and ridicule."

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, though he'd begun pacing back and forth at the foot of the bed, Robert shook his head. "Cora, you're being rather unreasonable."

" _I_ am being unreasonable? You can go down without me."

Robert shook his head. "You know I hate going to things on my own," he muttered. "Can't you just…" he threw his hands out on either side, gesticulating his frustration, "get over whatever this silliness is? You look fine, and it's not as though anyone will be looking."

"I'm not going down there." Cora pursed her lips and leaned back into her pillows.

Robert brushed a hand over his face, wishing the motion could cleanse him of the tension he felt settled in his brow, and kicked his toe sulkily against the bed—though he'd not meant to do it so forcefully. But it seemed that his small gesture of annoyance, this brief outlet of frustration, had been rather the straw that broke the camel's back.

Cora threw back the coverlet and pillow and stood to face him, her face that she'd so diligently controlled nearly since they'd left Downton on the late train, never allowing her true emotions to show, finally cracked.

"I am _not_ going downstairs," she hissed, repeating her position. "And if you are not pleased with the notion of going on your own, well, you'll just have to lump it!"

"You needn't shout," Robert answered. He rolled his eyes then and sat backward onto the edge of the bed, attempting to evade what had suddenly become rather tense air. "Come," he reached out and grasped at Cora's arm, "let's just go down and forget about all this. I really am famished."

But Cora would have none of it. She snapped her hand away from him so quickly he'd little time to react before she'd stormed out of the room.

He'd followed her, of course, though upon recounting the scene later on he knew that he should have simply allowed her to go, but he did follow after her.

And soon they'd begun yelling, Cora's usually soft voice reaching levels he'd certainly never heard as she derided him for his selfish behavior, shouting out a list of every misdeed of the past month. He'd been entirely disinterested in hearing such things, of course, and though he had shouted back, Robert felt increasingly foolish as they argued, knowing each and every point she laid at his feet to be true.

But then Robert had never been very good at accepting blame, even when it stared him in the face. And though he had tried to hold his tongue, had tried to ignore the heat of his temper, eventually the impulse to argue back had become too great—and when she called him foolish, lobbing the word at him just as his father had done, he'd snapped, shouting about her being just as much at fault for the mess as he was, about her being so bloody foolish that he'd been locked out of everything that rightfully belonged to him.

He'd not waited for her response, though he'd heard her begin to cry as he turned away. He'd stormed out of the room, shoving his hands into his pockets, feeling the delightful temptation of the crumple of bills that Rosamund had given him only that morning, and strode out the door.


	6. Chapter 6

Robert unlatched the hotel door to find the room perfectly silent and dark. The curtains had long been drawn, and though he had walked along the Strand with the rising sun and had listened to the clock chime out five times as he passed St. Stephen's Tower, the morning felt unnatural and entirely unwelcome to him.

His muscles ached and his toes throbbed dully against his shoes; he had walked quite a way, it had felt at the time, though he wondered now if it had even been a mile from the club back to the Savoy. Taking a carriage would have been ideal. However, as Robert fiddled with the key and pulled it from the lock, pocketing it in his trousers, he was reminded that he was entirely without the resources to hire a carriage.

With that thought, he felt both a twinge in his back—likely the effect of a night spent entirely upright at a card table—and felt more keenly a gnawing fear in the pit of his stomach. He had, once again, behaved poorly, had acted like the child his parents derided him for being.

Sometime during the night it had struck him that he was in the midst of a very poor decision. Even as the chaps at the club goaded him, encouraged him, and helped him to drink after drink, he had been aware that he was making yet another mistake—that he would regret each bitter sip, each damned cent tossed across the table as they played. And yet he had still done it, though he knew not why. His mind, even hours after his last drink, was cloudy; whether it was from the cobwebs he'd allowed to collect over the past weeks, or simply his mind's own attempt at protecting him from the full magnitude of his idiotic actions, he knew little of his own decisions. Perhaps his father had been right; he was a child, a child who had simply never learned. Or a glutton for punishment. Had he done it to punish himself? Perhaps the reason did not matter.

As he entered the small sitting room, hands shoved deep in his pockets grasping only at the small brass key and the single shilling he had remaining from his evening, he was reminded that his foolishness had consequence beyond any sort of self-punishment.

His wife was stretched out on the settee, asleep in what seemed an uncomfortable repose. Her feet were curled beneath her, and she was covered with merely the knitted blanket from the bedroom. She wore her tea gown, still, from the night before, and had a small book wedged under the cushion she had fashioned into a pillow. Robert recognized it as her most recent reading: Mrs. Austen's _Sense and Sensibility._ He would have laughed at the irony of such a title, if not for the overwhelming guilt that the tableau before him incited.

Robert dropped to his knees before his sleeping wife in what could be at best a caricature of husbandly concern. He was a fool, he knew that. But Cora deserved more than a halfwit husband who spent his time gambling and drinking, and he knew that, too.

He stroked his hand against her cheek, and brushed his lips against her forehead. Against his better judgment, he remained there, prostrate before her, murmuring her name, and dropping kisses to her face. Of all the misery he had brought upon himself, Cora was his only spot of comfort—the only facet of his life that helped him to still believe that not all was lost, not if he had Cora.

Robert knew, too, though, that Cora's presence in his life could very well be as fleeting as everything else seemed to be. But his musings, brought on by a mixture of guilt and alcohol, mattered little as Cora's eyes fluttered open and fixed him with some confusion.

"Robert!"

Cora started, fighting against her sleepy reflexes to sit up. She threw her arms around him and grasped tightly at him, almost immediately dissolving into a fit of tears.

"Oh, Robert. I—I thought you weren't coming back," she said haltingly, pressing her head against his shoulder.

Robert only shook his head, returning her embrace, and allowed his hand to make passes up and down her back. He hummed quietly, attempting to soothe her, but acquiesced to her need for him despite the torturous anxiety that pulled at his insides. _You're a fool,_ the voice inside him spat, _a bloody fool._

They remained that way for some moments, Robert's knees still pressed to the floor, his head tucked against Cora's chest. When she quieted, though, she relaxed her arms from around her husband so that she might look at him. And Robert felt that although perhaps they did not know one another as well as a husband and wife should, that Cora knew, in that moment, what he was about to say to her.

"I'm sorry," came first, his voice nearly ineffectual as he cleared the hoarseness with a rough cough.

She looked at him, waiting, and wiped an errant tear from her cheek. "It's I who should be sorry. I shouldn't have started such a row."

"No, no—it isn't your fault," Robert interrupted, not feeling himself capable of allowing her to take any more of the blame for his actions. "I should not have left you here alone," he continued, moored on the floor before her, "and I should never have brought us here in the first place. I—I've…" he paused, feeling his voice strained, and his throat suddenly painful and thick, "I've done something foolish. The money…I—the money's gone."

Cora was quiet, but certainly she had heard him, for she pursed her lips and cast her gaze downward. Robert fought the urge to stand and flee, to run from the judgment he would likely face, but Cora's palm pressing atop his hand interrupted such a plan, and she threaded their fingers together.

"Is it all gone?" she asked softly. At his slow nod, she seemed thoughtful rather than angry.

Somewhat puzzled by her subdued response, Robert attempted to explain. "I was angry, and I thought that if I went to the club for a while, just a short while, that I might reign my temper in."

Cora shook her head, though, interrupting the recount of his evening, and inquired again. "And it's all gone?"

For all his self-reproach and his wish to behave as he should, Robert felt his cheeks flame with some embarrassment when he nodded mutely again. "Yes, all of it."

Cora was quiet for a long moment, and Robert nearly squirmed with discomfort, unsure of what to say, and entirely confused as to how he might improve their situation. He supposed he could prevail upon Rosamund's good nature, for that could be no more belittling than his current situation. And he knew that his sister would likely help them once more.

But, again, Cora interrupted any such planning. "Have you thought about where we might go?"

"Go?"

Robert felt his response a dumb one, but had little else to offer. He'd not thought of quitting the hotel, but of course they would have to. And looking at Cora, then, he feared he knew what she was getting at, what she wanted him to say. The childish part of his brain wished him to remain silent, to stand dumbly before her and pretend he did not understand her meaning. But Robert knew, too, that his inclination when he returned to the hotel, his urge to make right what he had done, was stronger than his fleeting thoughts of continuing along the path he had frequented as of late. And so he bobbed his head up and down, slowly, and exhaled in defeat.

"I suppose I thought we might return to Downton," he allowed, not daring to look up and see what he was sure would be excitement pass over Cora's face. "Of course the situation with my parents is not ideal, and I imagine my father would make things rather difficult. But they've never been cruel; I cannot imagine they'd toss us out. And I mean to protect you, Cora."

When he looked up at her, he was surprised to find a sad sort of smile playing at her lips, and Cora patted the space beside her on the settee, gesturing for him to remove himself from the floor and sit beside her.

"I do not think it a good idea for us to return to Downton."

"But, Cora—"

"—Robert, I know I cannot claim any great knowledge of your family, or even you, but I imagine that if we return to Downton in this way, it will only widen the rift between you and your parents. If you do not mend what has been broken, how shall we all ever hope to live in harmony?"

"I do not disagree," Robert said, frowning, "but, Cora, I meant what I told you—truly, the money is gone. And I fear we have few other options than to return to Downton."

Looking more uncomfortable than Robert had seen his wife in quite some time, Cora fidgeted in her place, and began toying with the lace on the sleeve of her dress.

"We could go to stay with my Aunt Josephine," she offered quietly. "She's rented a place in Turin, in Italy, for the year. And she would welcome us, I know she would."

"Cora, that's all very well, but we cannot afford—"

"I'll pay."

At this, Robert snapped his head up.

"I'll pay for the travels."

"What—what do you mean, you'll pay?"

Allowing her gaze to wander around the dark room, Cora finally fixed her gaze on their entwined hands before speaking. "I have money from my father," she explained. "He wanted me to feel as though I wasn't dependent on…"

"On me?" Robert finished.

"Well, yes, I suppose."

"So all this time, you've had…"

"Yes."

"I see."

Though he certainly did _not_ see, Robert endeavored to keep silent, for he feared he would say something quite wrong if he did open his mouth. Was it fair of a wife to keep such information from a husband? The same voice that had nagged at him earlier whispered _no_ , but he was in rather a poor position to pick a fight. And so instead he swallowed down the slight, pretending to feel no offense at the realization that Cora had ostensibly lied to him all this while. He swallowed the feeling as best as he could manage, and listened to her explain how they might travel to her aunt, how she thought that the money would be just enough to get them there, and how they would be very welcome to stay there, for she had already written to her aunt some weeks before and explained their predicament, just in case their stay at Rosamund's turned out to be more temporary than they had planned.

Robert remained largely quiet through all this, nodding at what seemed appropriate times, and agreed that they would make arrangements to leave that very afternoon.

Seeing that it was only just six o'clock in the morning, though, Robert allowed Cora, too, to lead him back to bed. He allowed her to unbutton his wrinkled vest and shirt and to untie his shoes, the ones that still pinched at his feet. He did not push her away when she unbuttoned her own blouse and bared her skin to him, kissing him hungrily, desperately, and guiding them both to the bed.

He lost himself in the swirl of uncertainty, and in the press of Cora's hands against his back. It was easy to forget his failures when she kissed his lips, or when he urged her to lay beneath him and tugged up her chemise. Somehow his failures seemed to lessen as he pushed himself into her, breathing heavily, his body swaying unsteadily above her. Cora murmured his name, her hands drawing him closer, closer, much too close—he felt the heat between them to be stifling, but he ignored it, and thrust into her over and over again. She stroked his body, her hands altogether too soft, too kind and too gentle. Cora's teeth nipped at his ear, and he could feel the way she tried to bring them together, to make their coupling more than its base reality.

Robert cried out after only a moment, an inarticulate grunt that was nothing resembling his wife's name, that was nothing at all, really, and felt his body grow limp with exhaustion and relief. And Cora was uncharacteristically silent as he moved off her, though she remained by his side, their shoulders just touching.

Robert might have found the quiet of the room uncomfortable at one time, but his eyelids had already begun to droop, his body having exerted its last bit of energy after his sleepless night. So he remained quiet, too, disinterested in another conversation, and turned onto his side so that he might sleep.

He supposed that everything would be alright; perhaps it was enough that they had each other, and perhaps everything was not nearly as uncertain as it had felt only moments before. And so he closed his eyes and allowed sleep to claim him, ignorant to the sound of his wife's tears as she sat up and looked around the room, fearing that everything around them would soon topple down.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: A somewhat short update, but one of a few updates that will be coming in the next week or two. :)

* * *

They had arrived in Southampton nearly a week ago, and in that time Cora had found the city to be little more than a cacophony of noise; it was endlessly humming, congested, and everything seemed to be coated in dust or grime. Their journey from London had only taken half a day, but they'd arrived in the port city to find that the next ship traveling to Le Havre was not scheduled to leave until the following week. "Slow season," the man at the counter had said by way of apology.

And so he and Cora had been trapped in the city for six mind-numbing days of purgatory, each day hoping a ship would magically appear in the harbor and grant them passage to France.

Their days had been spent in solitude, mostly. The inn that they'd procured a room at— _The Traveler's Rest_ —felt ironic to Robert on several levels. Calling it an inn, he had mused upon their arrival, was generous. The establishment sat just at the head of the port, overlooking the grey docks. Its small main-level pub offered refreshment to the sailors who wandered in after a long day's work. However, to call the place restful would be an embellishment of the highest degree. The floors creaked relentlessly, the wind howled past the old windows at the most inopportune moments of early morning and night, and the chatter of the pub floated to the rooms above with near-constant regularity, ensuring that neither Robert nor Cora found a restful night's sleep.

Even if it had been quiet, their room was rather less well-appointed than the accommodations either were used to. Two sparsely made up single beds were partitioned by an ancient looking end table that's only benefit was the tiny candle that sat upon it. Robert was quite certain that the rug beneath the beds was lousy with dust, and he dared not peek into the small armoire, for fear of tiny creatures being found inside. The few sounds of errant scratching that he'd heard were enough to warn him off that particular notion.

The accommodations had unexpectedly earned Cora's ire, too. She had said little upon their initial occupation of the room, beyond a horrified once-over look that Robert only just caught before she tempered her reaction. But the days had worn on her, and slowly but surely her desperate attempts to remain agreeable—positive, even—were weakening.

The initial hiccups had come their first night. Cora, exhausted from the coach journey and clearly disappointed by their inopportune stay in Southampton, wanted little more than to wash the travels off her. Of course, neither husband nor wife had thought to ask the brusque innkeeper about bathing facilities, and Cora was especially stunned to find that the nearest toilet and tub was not attached to their room; rather, it was a leisurely walk down the hall, directly across from some stranger's room.

Her surprise at such an arrangement was only further exasperated by her husband, who quickly assured her that he would be accompanying her to the washroom whenever she needed to visit the place. Her dismissal was firmly rejected by Robert who only looked round their room suspiciously, and exclaimed in hushed tones, "there could be _criminals_ in this place, Cora."

Thus she became rather like a prisoner with an overly cheerful and overly cautious jailor. Robert had, in the realization of her discomfort, attempted to keep her spirits up and adjust his own mood—to an alarming degree of falsity. If he were annoyed with having to stand guard during her washroom visits, or having to sleep on what he was sure was a mattress filled with straw and other unmentionables, or even with having to take his meals in the pub that offered some variation of the same stew every night, he said nothing. Instead, he remained unaccountably cheerful—which only seemed to annoy Cora all the more.

By this day, their sixth day in Southampton, even Cora's brief attempt at slumber was destined to be interrupted. Drawing her head up from the tiny pillow with a start, Cora's attention was immediately drawn to the loud snores being emitted from her husband's sleep-heavy form.

It was amazing to her how Robert could manage to sleep soundly in such a horrid place. Cora found herself painfully awake night after night, staring up at the dark ceiling, listening to the drunken songs and shouts from the pub below. And when the hour would grow especially late, like clockwork, Robert would flip over onto his stomach with a deep grunt. The snores would begin moments later, loud but methodical—oddly soothing in their regularity. But not soothing enough to make her sleepy.

This rather base habit of her husband's was something new to Cora. At Downton they had only shared a room on random occasion, Robert more often than not electing to sleep in his dressing room. And when they did end up sharing the same bed, Robert never seemed to indulge in this particular habit. Perhaps, Cora mused, looking at his back rise and fall, it was the result of his sleeping position. For when they slept together, he was often on his side, his arm wrapped snuggly around himself, as though he was desperate, even in sleep, not to disturb her.

Normally, Cora would do anything to protect Robert's sleep. Their lives had been so strange as of late, so fraught with tension and stress. She could see the way he carried it in his shoulders, in his brow, and she wanted more than anything to take it all away. But six sleepless nights had conspired to extinguish Cora's usual good-nature. And as Robert snorted again in his sleep, she jumped up from bed—feet meeting the icy cold wooden floors—before she could tell herself otherwise.

He was aware of the pressure on his arm before anything else. But soon Cora's voice grew audible, even in the state of hazy half-sleep he found himself in. She was, he realized, shaking his arm. He rolled over and peered up at her, blinking open his tired eyes once, twice, and then a third time before he realized that she was calling his name, too.

"What is it?" he asked, forcing himself up as quick as he could manage—an immediate alarm sparked in his belly. He looked around the room for sign of some issue, but found only Cora's downturned lips and narrowed eyes fixed on him.

"You were snoring," she repeated, looking at him now as though he were a dull child.

Robert ran a hand through his hair and then over his face, squinting at the morning light that shone through the thin curtains. "So nothing's wrong, then?"

"What's wrong is that I can't sleep like this, Robert."

Cora's voice was low, terribly low, and although Robert knew that he'd only just been sleeping, he had the sinking feeling that he was already quite in the wrong. Sitting up more fully and throwing off the light coverlet (that was somehow flimsy and yet endlessly itchy), Robert pursed his lips and remained quiet for a moment.

"Well, I can't be held responsible for what I do when I'm sleeping."

"And I," Cora retorted, "won't be held responsible for what I do without a decent night's rest."

At that, Robert sighed dramatically and flopped backward into his pillow. "I said I was sorry!"

"No, no you did not!" Cora cried, earning a bewildered look from her husband. Crossing the room, she snatched up her tea gown and various undergarments from her opened trunk and turned back around with a huff. She looked as though she might speak again, but Cora only exhaled loudly, then, and moved toward the door.

"Cora, where on earth are you going?"

"I'm going to dress for the day," she muttered, her voice tight with annoyance. When Robert moved to extract himself from his blankets, fumbling blindly for his bed shoes, Cora paused with her hand on the doorknob.

This time, her voice was a hiss. "I am going down the hall to dress, Robert. Do _not_ follow me."

"But, Cora—"

He shouted after her, hopping on one foot as he pulled on his slipper, but it was ineffective, and his only response was the door that slammed behind her.

Looking dumbly at the closed door, Robert paused to consider his options.

Going after Cora would be a fool's errand. Cora rarely so much as raised her voice, so this particular strain of her ire was unknown to Robert. And he supposed that nothing would happen in just a few moments. Even though he had tried to be vigilant in his care of Cora—they were, after all, in a ghastly tradesman's hotel with all manner of people wandering around—he _supposed_ that it could eventually be construed as somewhat stifling.

He considered, too, that these six days likely represented the most consecutive time they had ever spent together. Although he had been sorely tempted on more than one occasion to nip down to the pub for a tipple, he dared not leave Cora on her own. At least when they were at Rosamund's, he could leave the house with little concern for her safety; she was surrounded by servants. Now, however, he was overwhelmingly aware, for the first time, how important his actions were—and how one misstep could land them both in trouble.

Robert was standing, now, pacing, and the floor creaked in unison. He thought again about the grimy streets that surrounded them, the sailors and tradesmen who walked around the port all day. No—no, she shouldn't be alone. And so he stepped toward the door, ready to face her, so long as it meant he would know she was safe.

As he turned the door handle, though, the solid wood door was swung open from the opposite side, causing its edge to hit him squarely in the chest.

"Ow! Cora—"

She was red-faced, seeming somehow angrier than she had been just moments before, and for one horrible moment Robert feared something awful had occurred.

"Were you coming to check on me?"

Robert did not claim to know all that much about his wife, but he could tell by her shrill tone that she was near tears.

"Darling, what's happened?" He tried to reach for her hands, but she pulled them away, eyes flashing at him in bright anger. She held her nightdress tightly, balled up in one hand.

"I don't need a jailer, Robert. Can't you just behave like my husband?"

She was quieter, and rolled her eyes as he continued to stare in some concern. And so she sighed, feeling his palpable nervousness, and turned around so that she could expose her back to him.

Robert looked blankly in confusion, before realizing that all the laces of her gown were loose, falling off her dress. "Cora, what—"

"I can't do the laces," she said, louder. Exhaling, she relaxed her shoulders a bit, and repeated herself. "I can't reach the laces myself."

"Oh."

Both were silent.

"So, nothing else is wrong?"

"No," Cora sighed. "Nothing else."

Robert said nothing, but stepped closer and began to do up the bindings. He'd taken on the task each day since they'd arrived in Southampton. Although Cora's money was enough for them to have taken on some help, the innkeeper had only snickered at the question of having a lady's maid procured. And neither he nor Cora had any idea where to post an advertisement in the city. So they'd determined to save the cost and simply help one another when needed. Robert had learned rather quickly that Cora was often in need of help more than he was. Her gowns had all manner of odd fastenings and lace and ribbon that served no purpose at all. And Robert found himself considerably more curious about these things when he was doing them up, rather than when he was pulling them off.

So he tied up the familiar ribbon again and then patted her shoulder to indicate the task complete. Cora turned back to him, looking incredibly tired, suddenly, and allowed herself to melt into his arms when he opened them to her.

" _I'm sorry,"_ was murmured against his shoulder as he rubbed circles into her back over and over.

"Oh, you needn't apologize."

And Robert meant that, for he knew that whatever faults he might lay upon Cora, a minor flare of temper, or rousing him from sleep, they were standing in that sparse room because of him, because of his folly. So he repeated it again, his voice gentle.

"Really, you needn't apologize to me."

When he felt her breathing begin to calm, Robert loosened his grasp on Cora and looked down warmly at her, brushing a finger against her cheek. She smiled at him, tentatively, and he knew that the redness in her cheeks was embarrassment at having lost her temper.

"What say we spend the morning here?" Robert asked, although the suggestion was not far off from their usual schedule. Southampton, aside from a few tearooms and shops, was not quite the buzzing metropolis of London. "You can rest for a bit. I've been wanting to read a bit of my book." '

This was a lie. Before leaving London, the two had consolidated their belongings, and had sent several trunks to Rosamund's for safekeeping. Robert had, in an attempt to be agreeable, and because he desperately needed something to busy himself with, had been reading and re-reading the same book since they'd left for Southampton.

Cora nodded, and allowed Robert to guide her toward his bed. Pulling the covers back, she slipped beneath, dropping her nightdress and bed shoes onto the floor beside, and lay against the pillow in some relief.

"I think that things will improve once we get to my aunt's," Cora mused, speaking more to herself than to Robert.

Robert nodded in agreement, hoping upon hope that she was right, and gestured toward the small wooden stool in the corner of the room. "I'll be right over there, if you need me."

Cora patted the place beside her, though, and reached for his arm. "You can sit here, if you want. It won't disturb me."

"If you're sure?"

Cora nodded her assent and so Robert kicked off his bed shoes, too, and carefully maneuvered himself onto the side of the small bed, reaching over Cora to quickly grab his book from the night table. It was a tight fit, but for the first time in a week, Robert and Cora suddenly felt quite comfortable in their tiny room.


	8. Chapter 8

When Violet first wrote the letter to her son, she expected a response within the week.

Although Robert had left Downton in a swell of rage, Violet liked to think that she knew her son rather well; he was, more than nearly anything else, stubborn and quick-tempered—a rather poor combination indeed. Even as a small child, he would run into her skirts, red-faced and wailing about some injustice or slight (usually at the hand of his sister). But even then, when tea-time was over and Nanny came to collect him, his eyes were always dry, and a smile returned to his cherubic face.

Robert was, beyond his flaws, a good boy.

So when a response failed to come after a week, and when one week turned to three, Violet felt pangs of anxiety that had been entirely unanticipated. When she allowed herself to dip into the memory of that awful night, the shouts and crashes blurred together in her mind, she knew that even in that anger, she would have stopped him if she knew then what she knew now.

Few people would call Violet Crawley weak-willed, and fewer would call her a sentimental woman. But as she packed her cases for London on this grey morning, Violet feared that she had let her reticence stand in the way of what was best for their family. Thinking again of Robert, she felt a momentary spike of anger when the image of his wife flashed through the memory. Robert _was_ a good boy. However, he often needed someone to guide him, rather like a stubborn pony needs a tether back to pasture. When Cora married Robert, that responsibility became hers. Or, it should have. But as Violet considered the previous weeks, the silence between son and father, the distance between her darling boy and the home he loved, it was clear that Cora was not equipped for such tasks. And in an absence of Cora's ability, Violet supposed it was necessary that she step in.

* * *

Rosamund heard her mother before she saw her. The distinct tapping of her shoes in Rosamund's entryway was audible even from the library, and she could hear her butler being directed to various tasks as Rosamund stood from her chaise, discarded her book, and walked cautiously toward the commotion.

It was unlike her mother to arrive unannounced, and so Rosamund greeted her with a fair bit of curiosity, holding her tongue, too, when she noticed her mother's timid maid standing off in a corner with at least four trunks.

"You must be tired, Mama. Would you like to rest? Then perhaps we could take a walk before the gong?"

Violet scoffed at the idea, and brushed past Rosamund, heading toward the front sitting room. "I've already told Adams to fetch us some tea, and not to disturb us beyond that," she said by way of answer.

"How mysterious," Rosamund replied dryly, following obediently behind her mother.

It was unusually quiet in the room as they poured their tea. Rosamund knew not to prompt her mother into conversation until the servants were gone. And so only the sounds of the tea accoutrements filled the terse air, Rosamund sneaking glances at her mother until the door closed behind the last footman.

"Mama—"

Rosamund sighed and settled back into her chair, fearing that her mother's visit had nothing to do with checking in on her daughter. An appearance from either of her parents in London was rare, and rarer still was an appearance from either of them at her home. She knew that her parents remained steadfast in their dislike of Marmaduke. Their stilted treatment of him at each holiday meal, each shoot, was evidence enough of that. Pretending that this was a social call would only put them both through unnecessary pleasantries.

"—I know you want to speak to Robert, but he isn't here. If you managed to do more than skim my letters to you, you'd know that he and Cora—"

"Don't play the martyr, Rosamund; it doesn't suit you. I read all my correspondences."

"Perhaps, but he's not in L—"

"Really," Violet continued, stirring a lump of sugar into her tea, "you like to think you're so puzzling to me, Rosamund. That I couldn't possibly begin to understand you."

"Mama!"

Violet frowned at the abrupt interruption, and settled her cup back into its saucer.

"What I mean is that Robert is not in London, Mama."

She knew by the almost imperceptible twitch of her mother's brow that she had surprised her, then.

"He and Cora, they left. They went abroad—"

"To America?"

Rosamund shook her head. "No, to the Continent. To stay with an aunt of hers. In France, I think. His letter was very brief. I've got it somewhere, if you want to see it."

"No, that will not be necessary."

Violet was quieter, then, and Rosamund fidgeted in her seat, ill equipped to comfort her mother, who suddenly seemed rather uncomfortable.

"He…he never got it then."

"I'm sorry?"

Violet looked up at her daughter, and Rosamund felt, in the pit of her stomach, a raw fright.

"My letter. I sent a letter to The Savoy. Do you know if he received it?"

"No, I—I'm not sure. But they did send some uncollected post here with his extra cases."

Rosamund stood, holding up her hand, and wandered to the desk in the corner of the room. Flipping through a few errant papers, she found the small bundle a moment later. Crossing the room, she held the unopened letters out to her mother. "Is it in here?"

Violet only shuffled through a one or two letters before her own script was staring back at her. She closed her eyes, again seeming to Rosamund in pain, and pulled the envelope out of the group. It came to rest on the table between mother and daughter.

"Rosamund. My dear."

Suddenly the sick feeling was back and Rosamund could only stare at her mother, a dull throbbing in her ears.

"My dear."

Violet tried the endearment again, feeling the words foreign. She was not demonstrative with the children—that was not how one raised one's sons and daughters. They needed guidance, moral instruction. Too much coddling would only make them weak.

But as she stared at her daughter now, Violet had a great urge to take her hand.

Instead, she reached for the letter again, feeling the weight of it in her palm, the weight of so many things better said in person.

"Rosamund, it's about your father."


	9. Chapter 9

On Sunday afternoon, Robert and Cora were busy folding clothes and repacking their trunks. The following morning marked the day their ship would finally depart for France, and once there they could begin the trek to Italy and Cora's aunt.

Excepting their minor spat earlier in the week, the young couple had passed the rest of their time in relative calm, venturing out into the city a few times for odds and ends and even taking a walk or two to stretch their legs and enjoy the warming spring air.

Cora continued to fold her items methodically. She'd watched her maids as a child complete the same task, and so she had a reasonable idea of how best to repack the case. And though they'd only brought one each, she had no desire to look like a wrinkled mess for the rest of their journey.

Robert, on the other hand, was bewildered by his task. And when Cora turned around to check on his progress, she found him staring in particular annoyance at a bundle that looked suspiciously like his overcoat.

"You need to lay it flat before you try folding in the sides," Cora explained, coming up behind him to demonstrate the correct steps.

"The blasted thing's already wrinkled." Robert stepped back and then watched in some amazement as Cora folded the mess into a neat bundle in a few quick motions.

"It'll even out in your case. Here—"

He took the proffered garment and set it inside the case, blushing slightly when Cora peeked over his shoulder and saw the other little bundles he'd furtively rolled up and set inside. She said nothing, though, and returned to her own items, allowing Robert the space to fix his own work.

"I imagine you'll be glad to have a maid again," Robert said, removing wrinkled items and refolding them as Cora had done.

"I suppose. Though I imagine that won't be until we reach Aunt Josephine."

"Oh?"

"How many traveling Lady's maids do you imagine to be waiting at the docks in France?" Cora chuckled, and turned around again to smile indulgently at him, no longer terribly unsettled by the prospect of fending for herself.

"You're right, of course." He smiled in return and pulled up the last shirt from the pile.

"Robert?"

He felt Cora's voice close behind him, and she sat down onto the foot of his tiny bed before he could respond. She smiled at him again, her eyes twinkling brightly, and it was all he could do to remain focused on the folding motions. It had been, he calculated quickly, rather a long time since they had been _together_ in any way. As his eyes wandered anywhere around the room but near his wife, taking in the dusty rug, the tiny beds, it was unsurprising that romance had not exactly bloomed here.

But now she was looking at him, and then he felt her hand on his, grabbing the shirt he'd successfully folded. He watched her set it on the top of his other clothes and pull down the lid of his case.

"I thought we could go downstairs to the pub for dinner," she said conversationally.

"The pub?" His frown of immediate displeasure darkened her countenance, but—really—could she blame him? Customarily, they took their meals in their room. The innkeeper would send up a scullery maid with a few trays and they would eat at the small table, making conversation as patrons caroused below them. The place was certainly not suitable for Cora. Each night they'd hear the ruckus from below, shouts and music and all manner of things that perpetually disturbed their sleep.

"Yes, the pub. It would be nice to get out of this room. And it's our last night here."

"Yes, it is. But, Cora—"

"—Please?"

He sighed again, looking into her pleading eyes, and felt himself nod. It frightened him sometimes how easily he gave into Cora's wishes; he would give her the world, if only he could. And it was such a small thing, really, just a dinner. He could sit through one loud evening if it would mean a chance to see Cora smile.

"Yes, alright. I suppose we can."

* * *

They could hear the noise from the staircase as they descended from their room and entered the pub. The place was dark and smoky, men fresh off the docks collected by the doors smoking cigarettes and sipping from large pints of ale. Robert watched as their eyes roved over Cora and he wrapped his arm around her waist, leading her toward a table in the back of the room—away from the men who unabashedly stared.

Oil lamps and burned-down candlesticks were collected in the middle of the tables, giving the simple room an odd glimmer, as though it was something out of a fairy story, albeit a very strange one. Of course, Robert imagined the table itself was rather dirty, and it felt altogether damp, being so near to the water. A window was open not far from where they sat, and noise from the shipyard could be heard in the distance.

But for all the strangeness of this place, Cora was indeed smiling.

"It's nice to be out of the room."

"It is."

Robert meant it, too. As they settled down at their table, he called over a barmaid to order two pints of cider (Cora having insisted they order food and drink appropriate to the locale), and relished the freedom to be in such a place without any prying eyes. Cora was dressed simply in a dark red dress and looked luminous, lit up by the dim candles and glow of the lamps, and he found himself reaching across the table to take her hand.

"We should talk about the plans for tomorrow."

Robert nodded, raising his brow in attention, but somewhat distracted by the color in Cora's cheeks. Although she was perhaps more liberal than he, his gesture of affection had not gone unnoticed, and he rather enjoyed the way she gazed down at their entwined hands.

"The ship leaves port at nine, and we should be to Le Havre by mid-afternoon."

"—And then to Paris?"

They both grinned at this.

Their travels would certainly not be as luxurious, but neither could help but remember their honeymoon was to begin in Paris. It seemed a cosmic joke, really, that they should end up there under such different circumstances, but when Cora felt Robert squeeze her hand then, she knew that neither were entirely displeased by the prospect of this revised plan.

"And then to Paris," he confirmed. "From there we'll head south to the Italian border, and then to your aunt's. Hopefully once we're there we can begin to make some real plans."

"I should like that."

He squeezed her hand once more, wanting to say so much more but finding himself, as per usual, indisposed in her presence. And so instead he released her hand and stood, gesturing toward the bar.

"I'll go see what's keeping those ciders."

Cora watched as he disappeared into the crowd of people, and wondered, then, if she had ever been to a place quite like this one. Certainly not in London; London had always been full of watchful eyes, chaperones, and people intent on catching her out. And New York had been much the same, really. Before mother had hatched the grand plan, her days had been occupied in the school room and at teas and other social events intended to better their prospects. There had been little time for fun—much less any sort of fun that might look like this, so wild and, well, exciting.

The hum of voices was nearly musical, floating around Cora as she waited for Robert to return. A steady stream of people moved in and out of the room, and every so often a barmaid would enter the room from the kitchen with a tray full of food. Daring to lean her elbow onto the table, Cora rested her chin against her palm and scanned the room again for her husband. The bar area was particularly crowded, large men in grimed-marked clothes all congregated around to shout their orders, and Cora wondered if Robert had ever been the one to fetch his own drink?

She was pulled out of her reverie by the feel of a hand on her shoulder, and Cora turned just as a strange man slid into the wooden bench beside her. He was large, perhaps larger than Robert, although she could not quite tell, and wore a threadbare wool overcoat atop what seemed to be a dock-worker's uniform. His face was shadowed by stubble, and a mop of dark hair nearly came to rest below his similarly dark eyes.

"Excuse me!"

Cora tried to stand, but realized that the bench came to an end at the wall beside her. The man grinned at her, exposing a set of horrid teeth, and settled his arm on the table—effectively closing her in.

"—I've not seen ye around here before."

Cora craned her neck, her eyes seeking Robert's form in the ill-lit space, but the bodies that surrounded her seemed to meld together, and her attention was brought back to the table by the sound of the man's voice.

"I need to go find my husband," she said by way of answer, looking expectantly as though he would move on command.

"Husband?" The man chuckled again, slapping his large hand against the table in amusement, and the sound made Cora's stomach twist uncomfortably. "Men don't often bring their wives 'ere."

"Well—" Cora shifted uncomfortably, her back against the wall as she tried again to more herself away from him. "—Mine did."

He chuckled once more. This time, though, the hand that Cora had been watching, the hand resting against the table, moved toward her, reaching out for her arm.

"Don't touch me!" Cora's voice was shrill, though nearly drowned out by the shouts of a few men playing cards a table over. No one seemed to notice her struggling. No one, she realized, seemed to notice her at all. Cora's face felt hot, then, terribly hot, and she pushed his hand off of her just as a wave of nausea came over her.

"Easy there," he laughed, and oh, the sound made her sick. She tried to stand again, her movements desperate and quick, like an animal backed into a corner, and then she felt the man's fingers grasp at her waist.

"—How much for the room upstairs?"

He was grinning at her, still, his horrid lips upturned around dark, horrid teeth, and she felt his fingers curl around the black satin ribbon that encircled her hips. And she realized, then, dimly, what he was implying.

"Get off of me," Cora screamed, reaching for one of the candlesticks on the table.

But the man was faster than she would have thought, and he stood, grabbing at her arm, and then he was nearly upon her, snarling something about her keeping quiet; his thick fingers held her wrist, and she tried to scream again, but her voice was hoarse and drowned out by the noise that still hummed around them. He leaned in and his body pressed against her, the small wooden table jostling with his rough movements. He was close enough now that she could smell the alcohol on his breath.

Cora jerked backward, using her free hand to push ineffectually at his chest, and then felt her head hit the wall just as he lurched forward onto her. She closed her eyes and braced herself for the impact, her heart thundering in her chest, but when she opened them again, he seemed to be falling backward.

And then she heard the sound of glass crashing against the floor, swiftly followed by the sight of Robert grabbing frenziedly at the man's back.

Although Cora had always though Robert to be terribly strong, the man was taller than him, and broader, too. He swung once and his fist connected with Robert's cheek. She watched, rooted in terror, as Robert wound his arm back and delivered a blow to the man's smirking face. There was blood, then, and Cora screamed again, calling for help as she watched Robert hit him over and over again.

It took three men to pull them apart.

By the time the other man was carted away, screaming and swearing and holding a hand to his bloodied face, Robert had removed himself from the immediate area and was hunched over a nearby table, cradling his fist close to his chest. Cora pushed through the curious onlookers and reached for her husband.

"Robert! Oh, Robert. Your hand—"

Cora knelt before him, to inspect the hand that was bloodied and swelling, but Robert shrugged her off, using his left hand to cup her cheek. Then he pressed a kiss to her forehead, a look of fierce determination in his eyes. "Are you alright?"

Cora nodded, surprised by the near-growl of his voice, and grabbed for the hand he held against her cheek, desperate to hold onto him, to anchor herself to him.

"Yes, I'm alright."

"Good."

He stood, wincing with the effort, and allowed Cora to guide him toward the front of the room. The barkeep was on their heels, scowling and yelling something about paying for the damages, but Robert could barely hear him, the pounding of his head had grown so loud. He hissed something about adding the cost to their bill, and pushed the man away from them.

They reached the doorway that separated the pub from the staircase to the rooms upstairs and Cora held out the door for her husband. She moved to follow, but noticed a shadow just to the right of her.

A young girl who looked as though she'd come back from the kitchens—after watching the row—held out a cloth full of chipped ice, and offered it shyly to Cora as they passed.

"Thank you," Cora said, but the girl only waved her off, smiling sadly at the pair.

As they opened the door to their room and Cora took in the grim space, she was immediately grateful for the towel and ice. There would be nothing suitable for bandaging a hand anywhere in this place.

Robert gravitated toward the bed, wincing once more when he sat at the foot and peered down at his hand. The few minutes that had passed had done little to ameliorate the injury; Cora could see even in the poor lighting that the hand continued to swell.

"That's going to hurt in the morning," she said softly, coming to sit beside him.

Robert chuckled, the sound coming out as little more than a cough. "It rather hurts now, to be honest."

"Here, let me—"

Cora reached for the hand and gingerly pressed ice atop it, wishing desperately to take away the pain—although the hissing sound he made when the towel touched his skin seemed to suggest she had done otherwise.

"Robert, I'm so sorry—"

"—Are you really alright?" he interrupted. "Because I couldn't bear it if you weren't. I should never have brought you down there."

Bewildered, Cora dropped the ice into his lap. "I was the one who insisted! If I hadn't been so foolish, then perhaps you'd not have been hurt."

His sigh was sad, albeit resigned. "Cora. It's my fault that we're here at all. But let's not talk about it now."

"But, Robert—"

"—Please? Perhaps things will look better in the morning," he mused, borrowing words she often said to him. He couldn't talk about it now, couldn't manage the effort to rehash the awful events that already plagued his memory.

"Alright, then. Can you move your fingers?"

"I'm not sure."

He attempted the motions, stretching out his thumb and index finger with relative ease. Shooting pain came, though, when he tried the same with the middle and ring fingers.

"Keep the ice on it," Cora instructed. "We really should call for a doctor."

"No!" Robert voice was sharper than he meant it. "We're not leaving this room until we leave tomorrow morning for good. I'll bandage them now and see a doctor when we get to France. I'm not staying in this godforsaken place a moment longer than I need to."

Cora was dubious, but remained silent, pressing the ice into his palm once more. "Hold still, then," she murmured. Waiting until the bits of ice were near melted, Cora ripped off a strip of the thin cloth and began to wrap it around Robert's hand, slowly working the fabric around the fingers, too.

If he was surprised by his wife's apparent medical knowledge, he did not show it. And as Cora continued her work, she considered that now was not the best time to make conversation about how her brother had often come home with bruised hands and broken bones from rowdy games of football. Though her knowledge of such things was certainly limited, after a few tries the makeshift bandaged looked nearly like Harold's bandaged fingers always did. And so she tied a knot and said a silent prayer that it would last him until they found a real doctor.

Come morning, the fingers were still quite swollen and rather stiff. But Robert was nothing if not stubborn, and insisted on carrying both the cases—on separate trips—to the dock. "I won't have my wife carrying my things," he'd said, and so Cora had trailed silently behind, attempting to remain passive each time he grimaced and flinched in pain.

Robert was, though, both stubborn and endlessly determined. And so when the ship pulled away from the docks at midday—after what seemed to be endless delays unnecessary holdups—Robert and Cora were both settled comfortable on board.

* * *

Three days later, the city of Southampton was remarkably unchanged. A cold rain pattered against the roads, and workmen walked to and from the docks with hats and overcoats pulled tightly to them, hoping to shield themselves from the weather. It was mid-April, but felt as though winter was still near.

The broken chairs and table in the pub beneath the inn had been hastily replaced; no remnants of the fight or of the aristocratic guests remained. Indeed, everything continued on as it had before Cora and Robert's arrival, and as it seemed poised to long after their departure.

And so when Rosamund stepped off the train at Southampton station, her mother's letter tucked in her handbag, she took in the city much the way her brother and sister in law first had—with considerable skepticism.

If Marmaduke ever found out that she'd come here alone, he'd hit the roof. Even Mama had insisted that no rash action be taken, and had returned to Downton two days after her arrival in London. They had agreed to write the Levinsons and procure the address of Cora's aunt. There was time, Violet insisted—time enough that they need not appear desperate.

But after their conversation, Rosamund felt little other than desperation, and horribly useless, too. Her mother had never been an alarmist, that much she knew. But Rosamund had seen the fear in her eyes, had heard the tight strain of her voice as it attempted to remain even and calm. She couldn't sit in that townhouse thinking, thinking, thinking so bloody much about Downton and her mother and her—no, even now, even as she stepped out onto the grey streets, she could not think of that.

It took her much of the afternoon to find the right hotel—and _hotel_ was a word loosely used for an establishment like the one Rosamund found herself in. She stood near the bar of a dark little tavern, pulling her fur-trimmed coat more securely around her as she took in the few patrons who were at various tables throughout the room.

"And you're sure they stayed here? And that they've gone for good?"

The man behind the bar nodded, swiping at the glass in his hand with what looked like a rather unclean towel.

"Yep. Signed in and out right here," he replied, pulling a guest ledger from beneath the bar. He flipped through a few pages and then pointed to her brother's signature.

"I'd hoped they would still be waiting for a crossing," Rosamund sighed.

It was clear, though, that the proprietor had little interest in her troubles, for he had already wandered away, leaving her at quite a dead end.


End file.
